


Scarves and Ties

by S_Faith



Category: Bridget Jones's Diary - All Media Types
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-12-30
Updated: 2008-12-30
Packaged: 2019-03-15 09:25:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13610391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/S_Faith/pseuds/S_Faith
Summary: Mark didn'tmeanto get all tied up...





	Scarves and Ties

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by a suggestion by [](http://paper-jam11.livejournal.com/profile)[**paper_jam11**](http://paper-jam11.livejournal.com/).
> 
> I loved the ideas of scarves in an intimate situation, but had a hard time thinking of Mark as someone who would willingly allow himself to be tied up. He just seems like he'd be a rather vanilla sex sort-of guy (at least, at this point in the relationship). However, if it started out as an accident… *evil grin*
> 
> Disclaimer: Very much not mine.

It was just that it was a brand-new relationship. That was all. He really _didn't_ have an insatiable libido. Just… right now, at this point in time… when it came to her, he did. He wanted to be with her, couldn't get enough of her; he'd taken to going to see her every night after work, because now that they were together, he felt like he wanted, _needed_ , to make up for lost time, especially when he considered all of those months between sporadic, antagonistic meetings on less-than-neutral ground: her parents', the Alconburys', his parents'.

He supposed, then, that it was inevitable that this might happen: intractably caught up in his own clothing.

She'd launched herself on him the moment he'd come into the flat, not even waiting for him to come up the short jog of stairs, and in their haste in trying to get out of his coat, scarf and suit jacket, his arms had become stuck in the tangle behind him.

She clearly found it amusing.

"Hm," she said, grinning wildly. "Maybe I'll just leave you like that."

"Bridget," he pleaded. "It isn't funny."

"What are you talking about?" she asked. "It's hilarious. Come on upstairs. I'll get you undone."

She helped him up to the main part of her flat, which left him feeling rather like he was being led in handcuffs up to the dock. Once upstairs, she turned him around and started tugging down on his jacket. It didn't budge.

"Hm," she said thoughtfully, patting him between the shoulder blades. "You've gone and gotten yourself good and stuck."

"Yes," he said. "I quite realise that."

He felt her hands on his upper arms as she stood behind him, then felt her rake her nails down them; he could feel it acutely even through the cloth of his dress shirt. "I could work this to my benefit," she said. "Could completely take advantage of you and you couldn't do a thing to stop me."

"Why would I want to stop you?" he asked jokingly, turning his head, trying to look at her.

It became clear that she was serious when she did not respond, instead only began massaging his shoulders through his shirt, combing her fingers into his hair.

"Bridget," he said dangerously. What she was doing felt lovely, but he was still firmly stuck. "Get me untangled, please."

"Oh, Mark," she said, stroking his arms again, which were becoming a little fatigued being held back in that position. "You don't always need to be in such control."

"Bridget," he said exasperatedly. "Have you not yet noticed that I am anything but in control when I'm with you?"

"You may not think you're in control," she said, coming around in front of him again, "but you really have a long way to go when it comes to just really just letting go completely. Would it be so awful?"

Her eyes were twinkling; he began to think it would not be so awful, after all.

With a smirk, she reached up and loosened his tie, then pulled it off, then undid the button at his throat. Pulling the collar wide, she traced her fingers over his neck, then worked the shirt buttons open one by one.

He felt conflicted. He hated feeling as helpless as he did, but he also very much liked the attention she was giving him, the way she was touching him.

She then moved to his trousers, unfastening the belt. Reason kicked in.

"Bridget, Bridget," he said haltingly. "We're in the middle of your flat."

"There is no one else here," she said, matter-of-factly, working open the button on his trousers, then the fly, then turned her eyes up to him. "It's just you and me. And you're a little tied up."

"Then untie me."

"Mmm. What if I don't want to?" she said petulantly, taking his trousers by the waist and tugging them down. They pooled around his feet. "I'm rather liking doing this without interruption." She pushed her thumbs down into the waistband of his boxer shorts as she bumped her chest up against his, her lips millimetres from his. "You can't tell me you don't like it, too."

He could hardly deny the effect her touch was having on him; his body spoke louder than any protest could. "I'd like it more if I could touch you in return."

"All in good time."

"Please let me out of this coat," he said, pleading.

She stepped back, pouted, then sighed. "All right. Fine."

She circled round behind him and he could see her crouch down to try to work out the puzzle of his entangled clothing. He felt her tug at something, then start to giggle.

He should have known her surrender was too easy.

When she circled around him again, she held up his merino wool scarf. "Well," she advised, "got this out of the tangle, but the rest… may have to cut you out of it."

"Bridget, come on," he said, his voice a mix of annoyance and lust. "Just put the jacket back up on my shoulders, and same with the coat. It'll come straight off then."

She regarded him for a moment, then went back around to his own personal Gordian knot. He could, however, not feel her trying to do anything with his shoulders.

That's when the scarf dropped down over his eyes.

"Bridget!" he said sharply as she tied it tightly at the back of his head; the scarf was not so densely woven that it blocked out all light, but it certainly obliterated all sight. "That's enough mucking about. Get me out of the coat and—"

He abruptly stopped talking. He had to. His sense of reason and logic had been completely blacked out by the feel of her fingers on his abdomen, then on his chest, his hips… seemingly everywhere at once with no indication where they might be next. It was wholly disconcerting as well as arousing.

And then they stopped. Everything stopped. There was no sound, nothing but the faint rustling of what might have been fabric, the sound of wood on wood.

"Bridget?"

He was embarrassed by how desperate his voice sounded.

He felt her very hot hand on his, tugging him forward. Clumsily he stepped out of his shoes then out of the trousers, blindly following wherever it was she was leading. He imagined how utterly ridiculous he must have looked: stockings, boxers (against which he had begun to strain), undershirt, unbuttoned dress shirt, and a suit jacket and overcoat holding his arms hostage, never mind the wool scarf that was starting to make him perspire.

Judging from the change from hard floor to carpet, he guessed they were in the living room; strangely, she was not saying a word, and if not for her hand in his he might have guessed he was all alone. Suddenly they stopped and she released his hand.

"Bridget." Again it was desperate.

Her thumbs were suddenly inside the waistband of his boxers, and the unexpected touch made him gasp. She then pushed the boxers completely off of him, running her hands over his hips and backside.

Without warning he felt her breath close to him, on his mouth. She must have gotten up on her toes. "Sit down," she commanded softly.

"What?"

She shifted, and her now-bare body touched along his. He sucked in another surprised breath. "There's a chair directly behind you."

"But my arms. The coat."

She traced fingernails again over his skin. He felt woozy.

"They'll be fine." She giggled lightly. "Just sit before you fall over."

It was a little bit of a leap of faith, allowing himself to drop back without any concept of where the chair was, what shape it was, if it was soft or hard; although less of a leap than it could have been with anyone else, as she wasn't mean-spirited enough to let him fall to the floor on his bare arse.

The chair was soft, was wide, and was accommodating of the extra fabric. He imagined it was the blue chair in her living room.

"There," she said. Her hands were on his thighs, her voice close to him, and he could only imagine how she looked bending forward to speak to him. She then straddled his lap, sat on his thighs, and began tracing the lines on his face, leaning forward to place feather-light kisses on his chin, his jaw, the corners of his mouth. "Is it so bad to just let me take the wheel, so to speak?"

He hadn't really thought about the times they'd had sex in terms of who'd directed whom, but he realised it had pretty much always been him; was he really so afraid of losing control? Her hands were drifting down again, raking over his cotton undershirt, around to his sides, then to his hips.

Her mouth then covered his, kissing him with full passion; she scooted forward so that she was up against him, and all he could think of was her breasts, how much he wanted to run his hands over them, over her, and he made a little sound, part frustration, part desire.

He swore he heard her laugh low in her throat.

When her fingers brushed against him, firm and aching for her, he could not stop a guttural _fuck_ from issuing forth from his lips; when she began to stroke him, wrapping her palm around him while leaning in to assault his mouth with gentle teeth, he began demanding she let him free, except the lack of communication between his brain and his mouth meant those thoughts verbalised only as pained groans and staggered breaths.

"Did you want me to stop, Mark?" she breathed wickedly, close to his ear. That bloody scarf was soaking wet with his sweat by now. "Have you had quite enough?"

Had his arms been free, he knew exactly what he would have done: grabbed her hips, thrown her back against the bed, and driven into her with punishing force to make her cry out more loudly than she ever had. Unfortunately, he could not, could only manage to twitch his hips up. "No, Bridget," he managed feebly. "No."

She made a definite sound of amusement. "This is quite fun, having my way with you," she said, her touch on him becoming light and fleeting, which was in a sense almost worse than the hard strokes. "Love watching your throat bob up and down." She kissed his Adam's apple. "Love watching your jaw go all taut," she continued, placing her lips on his chin, then darting her tongue out and running it along his jaw. "Love watching you struggle with control when it's a lost cause, really."

He realised in a flash of insight that control could be, should be, _was,_ a lost cause when it came to her… and that he was absolutely and utterly willing to surrender it to her. He meant to agree, meant to tell her she was right but was still having difficulty forming words.

However, it did not seem to matter. Her hands were at once on his sides; she was pulling herself forward, getting her knees up next to his hips, leaning into him and kissing him again.

"Really, though," she said throatily, "I can only torture you and myself for so long."

Her hand was on him again; her weight shifted and he felt her lower herself, felt himself entering her, with a great moan on both their parts. She moved slowly at first, uttering little sounds of pleasure as she did, her elbows bracing herself up on either side of his head (he could feel them pressing into the fabric there). She picked up speed, though, and as her pace quickened, as he thrust up into her downward motion as best he could, her utterances became less coherent. She was leaning up against him fully now; he could feel her breasts pressed into him, pressed up against his shirt. She was clearly now clutching onto the chair in order to pull herself into him, her elbows digging into his upper arms with each thrust down. 

It all drove him even more wild, drove him even closer to the brink, and the only thing he could think about was holding back, letting it build, waiting for her, but then he thought about control, how he was supposed to be letting go—

It overtook him when he least expected it, his climax, and he let out what wasn't a cry so much as a whimper, pleasure so intense it was nearly pain. Trying to regain his breath, he blindly leaned his head forward and found the curve of her neck, then began to kiss her, quickly moving to graze his teeth on her skin. This seemed to further inspire her frenzy until at once, she tightened around him, arched back with a cry and he felt her come.

"Oh," she said, falling forward onto him, kissing his mouth tenderly, her hands on his face again. She pushed the scarf from his eyes and up into his hair, and the relative brightness made him squint, made him blink rapidly until his brown eyes settled upon her lovely face. She then kissed him again, long and sweet and languorous.

"Bridget?" he began.

"Hm?" she asked, tracing his brow with her thumb.

"My arms are growing numb."

She chuckled. "I'm so sorry, Mark." Gingerly she pushed herself up, manoeuvred off of his lap, then managed to help him stand again. Without the haze of wanton desire standing in the way, she was able to get his coat and jacket stripped off, and he swung his arms wide, thankful to be able to move them again.

It was then he noticed the table was set for five, or rather, five plates stacked on the corner, five wine glasses in the centre. It was immediately after that the entryphone began to ring.

"Oh, shit," she said. "They're here." She glanced to the clock. "Double shit! Early!"

"What?"

"Tom, Jude and Shaz. Did I not mention they were coming for dinner and a movie?"

He looked down to himself, clothes in obvious post-shag disarray, and her, completely bare. He smelled no food smells at all, had assumed they would be getting takeaway or pizza.

He cleared his throat. "You did not mention that, no."

The entryphone buzzed yet again.

She raced to find her clothing, hastily slipping into her pants, jeans, bra and jumper; he buttoned his shirt back up, put on then smoothed the suit jacket down, then followed the trail from his boxers back to his trousers and shoes (which he picked up and set carefully by the banister).

Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.

Bridget raced over to answer it. "Hi! You're early!" Long pause. Her skin flooded pink. "No, didn't interrupt anything." She flashed her eyes to him, unable to resist a smile. "Come on up." She pressed the buzzer.

Before coming near to him, she picked up something from the floor under the phone. She folded it up sloppily and pressed it into his hand. It was his tie.

"That," she said in a low, impish tone, "can be for later."

He understood the implication, and found himself quite unexpectedly intrigued by the idea. His thoughts were interrupted by a raucous knock on the flat door.

She went to open it and was immediately launched upon with hugs from her friends. "Didn't interrupt anything, my arse," teased Sharon, smoothing Bridget's hair down and shooting a glance to Mark, winking.

He shoved his tie into his jacket pocket, smiling in return.

"You didn't," she said.

To his surprise, he said, "We were finished."

At that, all three started laughing; he felt himself tint pink and he saw Bridget smile almost proudly at him as she walked over to him and gave him a hug.

"You," she whispered, "are adorable."

He responded by pecking a kiss into her hair.

"All right, enough, enough," said Tom, grasping both Mark and Bridget by the shoulder and playfully pulling them apart. Tom then looked at the hand on Mark's shoulder, then up into Mark's face in amused shock. "In the suit jacket? Really?"

It was, after all, quite wrinkled. Mark felt his blush deepen.

Jude was the one carrying the pizzas, Sharon had the wine, and they had set their burdens down on the table. Now they went and pulled Tom off of the two of them. "Come on," said Jude. "As if you're at all surprised." She smiled, an eyebrow flicking up. "I still wonder what we might have prevented happening on your birthday, Bridget."

Mark was just thinking he was not sure he could take an entire evening of taunting about his and Bridget's sex life, when as suddenly as it started, it stopped. Jude popped open the pizza box; Sharon uncorked the wine (or rather, unscrewed; it was not expensive wine) and poured it, and Tom fished a DVD out of his coat pocket.

"Because who doesn't love Harrison Ford circa 1981?" Tom asked, winking.

After doling out pizza slices they went into the living room; the presence of the coat on the chair they'd just had sex on—it had been the blue chair, after all—inadvertently started the teasing all over again.

"Barely in the door, eh?" laughed Sharon. "You animal."

"I want to sit in _that_ chair," announced Tom, waggling his eyebrows, looking pointedly at Mark. He knew Tom's flirting was harmless but it still made him blush again, especially as Mark had chosen that moment to take off his suit jacket.

"You are absolutely mental," said Bridget, though it did not escape Mark's notice that she was crimson herself.

"A boy has to take what he can get," he said, pulling the chair around so he could see the telly, then flopping down into it, leaving the coat where it was. "And if hetero sex vibes are it, then so be it."

Bridget adjusted the telly and put in the disc. "You're more than mental. You're downright deviant."

"So I've been told." Sharon and Jude had each claimed one of the smaller chairs, leaving the sofa for Bridget and Mark. "Now start this film and let the hunkiness begin."

She sat beside Mark, who handed her a plate and a glass of wine. She mouthed the words _I'm sorry_ with a plaintive look. He merely smiled and replied with an equally soundless _It's all right_ , then leaned forward to kiss her cheek.

After they were finished eating and were through the better part of the second bottle of wine, she curled more closely into his embrace. He had to admit he was not really watching the film; his thoughts were more firmly settled on what awaited him after her friends left. Darkness had long since fallen; the only light in the place was that of the telly. He felt her lips close to his ear. "They're just jealous, you know," she whispered.

He tightened his arm around her shoulder. He knew how they felt.

He glanced from the telly to her friends, each in turn had eyes fixed on the screen. Almost as if she sensed their attention was elsewhere, she began to delicately nibble on his ear.

"Bridget," he breathed. It was difficult enough to not think about later without her encouraging him.

"Sorry," she said quietly, leaning back again with a smile. "But well… there it was."

He chuckled, pulling her back into his embrace.

Somehow they made it through the film without further incident or embarrassment, and to their credit her friends knew enough not to stick around much past the end.

As they got ready to leave, he saw Jude pull Bridget aside and say something to her, a genuine smile on her face. Bridget grinned in return and hugged her friend.

"Mark," said Sharon. "Nice to see you again." He turned to see her smiling at him. "We're glad you two, um, worked things out."

Mark grinned. "As am I."

Sharon seemed to be studying his features, and her expression got a little more serious. She leaned in. "If you hurt her, we'll bollock you," she said solemnly.

He remained as unflappable as he could. "Duly noted," he said, equally solemnly.

Within a few minutes he was left alone with Bridget again, who was still radiating happiness from whatever it was Jude had said to her. It made him smile, too.

"What did she say to you?"

They each asked the question at the same time, making them both chuckle.

"You first," said Mark.

"Jude just said she was really, really happy for me, that she liked you way more than any of my other boyfriends, and that you seemed to be such a nice guy." He wasn't sure how his expression changed, but it must have, because she burst out with a laugh. "There are worse things, you know, than being thought of as a 'nice guy'."

"I suppose," he said; "like a nice guy who can't even wait to get his coat off before launching himself desperately onto his girlfriend."

She laughed again. "If you recall, Mark, it was I who jumped you at the door."

He smirked, remembering that to be true.

"So what did Shaz tell you?"

He pulled her into his arms. "That I'd be singing soprano if I ever hurt you."

She started to giggle. "Well. As I quite like the pitch of your voice as it is, take care not to hurt me, all right?"

"Absolutely."

"Unless, of course, I ask you to," she said. "Which brings to mind… I remember something about a tie."

He laughed, mostly to cover up the fact his hunger for her had flared up in him again.

"Mmm," she continued, drawing out the consonant out for many seconds, and pushed herself up on her toes, kissing him quickly, then again, more passionately. "Like that thought?" she said in a sultry tone, running her hands over his backside, pulling back to meet his eyes. "Having your way with me like that?"

It amazed him once more how quickly she could turn from playful and sweet to utter sex kitten. His voice cracked as he spoke. "Haven't been able to think of anything else all night."

Her eyebrows rose practically to her hairline. "You never cease to surprise me, Mark Darcy," she said, voice playful once more, before breaking away from him.

He looked down at her, gazing intensely into her blue eyes, before abruptly breaking away, marching over to where his suit jacket lay, driving his hand into the pocket. He then turned back to her, caught the tail end of a confused expression before obviously realising he'd gone back for the tie, and she smirked.

Purposefully he strode back to her, took her roughly up into his arms and kissed her, lifting her off of her feet; with her legs around his waist, her arms linked around his neck, he carried her back to her lamp-lit bedroom and dropped her onto the bed. Immediately he reached down for the bottom edge of her jumper and pulled it up over her head; she reached forward for his belt and trouser button, but he pushed her hand away. "No," he said authoritatively. "In fact…" He trailed off, undoing the clasp of her bra (on the front, thank goodness; he hated working the back clasps), removed it, then took her hands, lifted them over her head, and used the tie to bind them together, securely, but not too tightly.

Only then did he consciously realise she did not have a headboard.

"Damn," he said. She asked him what was wrong, and he told her.

She smirked. "There's always the frame."

She fell back to lie crossways on the bed, then wriggled back so that her hands hung over the edge, the tie dangling down. He went over, took the tie end, and fastened it around the metal bed frame, equally securely.

He went back to the side of the bed, looked down at her lying there, arms fixed up and over her head, pert pink breasts and a wicked smile—

At that moment, the entryphone began to ring.

He looked up in alarm.

"Ignore it," she said, arching her back up.

Deciding to take her advice, he leaned over her, unfastened her jeans, and peeled them down her legs.

It buzzed again.

"I'm ignoring it," he said resolutely, working her pants off, pulling her socks off one by one.

Her telephone rang. He tried to ignore that too, at least until the answerphone boomed out. "Bridge? It's Jude. I'm on your doorstep. Pleeeeease let me up. I left my handbag by the chair and it has my keys in it. Pleeeeeaase. _Pleeeeeeeease_ _!_ "

Jude carried on, clearly waiting for someone to pick up the phone. Mark looked down at her. She was fighting a laugh.

"Go and give Jude her bloody bag. It's not like I'm not going anywhere."

_Right._

He raced to pick up the phone, trying to quell the desire that had already managed to burgeon. "Yes, Jude. Give me a moment and I'll buzz you in."

Stunned silence for a moment, then, "Where's Bridget?"

"She couldn't come to the phone."

He swore he could hear her grin over the phone. "Ahhh," she said knowingly.

He sighed. "I'll leave it just outside the door."

"No," she said. "Someone might steal it. I'll be right up and then you can, well, carry on."

He said nothing, simply hung up the phone went over and buzzed the entryphone.

Within moments there was a knock on the door. He opened it, saw Jude, saw Jude visually inspecting him as if she'd expected him to come to the door fully naked and erect, when, in fact, he looked no different than he had when she'd gone a few minutes ago. 

"Here you are," he said, shoving the bag at her.

Jude, however, did not take the hint, instead tried peering into the flat.

"Good night, Jude," he said darkly, giving her a piercing look.

"But you're dres—"

"Yes," he interrupted. "That was about to _not_ be the case." What did Jude think, that he had strangled Bridget and was about to dispose of the body when Jude had rung?

"I'll call later," Jude said, still looking suspicious.

"Tomorrow," he said, then closed and locked the door. He took the telephone off the hook for good measure.

"Jude all settled, then?" she asked, still looking gloriously beautiful as she laid there. Most of his irritation dissipated at once.

"I'm not sure," he said. "She looked like it was a point of concern that you were indisposed and I was fully dressed."

"Like you were about to dismember my body in the loo," she said with a smirk, making him blink in disbelief. "Give me my mobile and I'll ring Jude quickly to let her know not to have the Metro Police lay siege on my flat."

He found her mobile on her bureau. She dictated to him which number to dial and as he did, he asked, "Is this something you discuss frequently? Being murdered by seemingly-nice boyfriends, and needing a signal to cry for help?"

She shushed him as he held the phone to her ear, lying beside her, and as she waited for Jude to pick up, he decided to make good use of his free hand, splaying it on her abdomen. "Jude!" she said squeakily, flashing her eyes at him in warning. He smirked. "No, I'm fine, I'm more than fine. Just wanted to assure you that—" She broke off when his palm covered her breast, thumb brushing over her nipple. "—all's well, have to go, bye!"

He pressed down on End, then pressed and held it down to power off her mobile before tossing it onto a pile of clothes.

"That was mean," she said, yet grinned all the same.

"I have your body at my disposal," he said. "What else was I to do?"

"Not that."

"Oh," he said, feigning deep thought. "Suppose I could have done this instead."

He leaned forward and placed his mouth on her right breast while his hand kept busy on the left. He heard her taking in uneven breaths, could feel her body arch and bow against the restraint of the tie. "Mark," she gasped.

"Mmm," he said, the vibrations of his deep voice undoubtedly adding to the effect his tongue and teeth were already having.

"Jesus," she hissed. "Fucking overdressed."

He stopped what he was doing and realised she was right. He fought the urge to chuckle. He rose from the bed, undid his trousers and dropped them before taking off his socks. His fingers were not as nimble as he'd have liked working down the front of his dress shirt; truth be told he'd grown fond of Bridget divesting him of his garments.

He realised she was watching with great interest as he slipped out of the shirt.

"Kind of sexy," she purred, "watching you strip in front of me like this. May make you do it all the time." He felt shy and emboldened in the same moment.

He pulled his undershirt over his head, threw it aside, then shimmied the boxers down over his hips before crawling into place beside her again.

"Please, oh great and wondrous God," he began, "no more interruptions, no entryphones, no knocks on the door, no errant tornadoes or lightning strikes, or helicopters crash-landing on the roof."

"Yes, dear Lord," she added. "See fit to let this gorgeous hunk of man shag me senseless."

He wasn't sure he liked that mental image, but he concurred with the sentiment, and dove upon her once more, picking up where he'd left off pre-clothing-shed. Within moments she was arcing and writhing again under his touch, gasping his name. As he climbed to kneel between her legs, he kissed a trail from one breast to the other before tracing fingers along her upstretched arms then bringing them down under her bowed back to her arse. As he did, he moved his tongue along the edge of her ribcage, down to dip into her navel. His hands swept over her hips, on which he then moved to graze his teeth.

He felt her hips arch up into him, heard her beg for more.

"Not yet, love," he said, scolding gently; though he was aching to join with her, he had other goals yet in mind.

He worked his way further down onto her leg to her inner thigh, which he kissed, nipped at, then traced his tongue along; turning his head, he did exactly the same thing to her other thigh.

She was visibly trembling as he lifted his head again.

"Christ, Mark," she said, her voice shaking. "Don't stop now."

He ran his fingers lightly over her abdomen, then along the crease of her leg, over her between her legs, teasing with only the barest touch of his fingertips.

She cried out as if in pain.

He pressed his lips to her inner thigh again as he continued the taunting touch to her; he accounted for her bucking movements and was sure to keep his fingers at the absolute lightest pressure on her. Slowly, surely, lightly, his tongue took over for his fingers. It took all of his willpower not to drive into her, to make her come to the feel of his lips and tongue; no, restraint on his part was key too, even as she tried to dig her heels into the bed and thrust up into him.

"In good time," he said gently, flitting his tongue over her again, resisting the urge to drive his own hips into the mattress for relief. She cried out for him, cried out unintelligibly, moving in such a way that told him she was pulling against the tie; she was pleading with him to give her something more, and give it to her now.

He increased the pressure very gently; to hear the escalated volume of her cries, one would have thought he was causing her grievous bodily injury. He massaged his fingers into her buttocks, her hips, as his tongue lifted ever so slightly to connect with the bud of nerves there.

The way she shrieked made him reconsider this slow assault on her person, but then, between great heaving breaths, she begged him not to stop, that she loved the way it felt, that she was so, _so_ close to coming.

_What the hell_ , he thought. He could always fuck her properly in a few minutes.

Simultaneous to his tongue firmly covering her, swirling around in tight circles, did he drive two fingers up into her, pressing hard up toward where his mouth was. She moaned and bucked her hips, cried out for God or Jesus or something, then rippled around him, her hips thrusting up into him, shuddering and groaning as she came. He did not remove either his mouth or his fingers, only began moving them faster, and within a moment or two she came again amidst a desperate attempt for breath.

After she calmed, he decided to try once more, this time humming low in his throat as he did. This triggered yet another explosive climax, sending her to almost literally vibrating on the bed. 

As much as he was enjoying setting her off on demand like that, he decided to relent. He lifted his head at last.

" _Jesus_ god," she managed while inhaling, then forcibly exhaled and inhaled again, as if she'd forgotten how to breathe. He crawled up beside her and took the hard point of her nipple in his mouth again, causing her to moan anew.

"Mark," she managed at last, as he came face to face with her again. Her decidedly unfocused eyes met his. "You're an evil man. A wolf in sheep's clothing."

"You did say 'senseless'," he whispered huskily, close to her ear. "Did that feel good?"

As she exhaled again, he could hear the stutter in her breath. "What do you think, genius?"

"Excellent," he murmured, lowering his head to kiss her, his hand running over her ribcage then around to her back to grasp her. He was, as always, damn thankful he couldn't ordinarily see or feel her ribs. "How are your arms?"

"I still have arms?" she teased, sighing, closing her eyes.

"Arms, and legs, and breasts, and a soft, luscious mouth—" He stopped when his lips met hers again, and she fiercely kissed him in return. He knew what it meant. He knew that she knew he had not actually had his own release, her tenacity speaking volumes to him: _go on, take me—I know you want to._

It wasn't as if he'd had a chance to lose his arousal, not when he'd just been grazing her breast with his teeth, still had the velvet of her skin beneath his fingertips; he pushed himself up on his elbow and moved into place between her legs again, brushing against that sensitive nub with his fingers. She was still hot, wet and, as she gasped, as aroused as he was. Abruptly he pushed forward and into her, causing her to groan and throw her head back, breaking the kiss, calling his name again.

He started slow with his thrusting because there was something exquisite about the feel of her around him; she surprised him, though, by wrapping her legs around him and hooking her ankles together, changing the angle slightly, causing her to cry out, causing him to speed up more quickly than he'd planned.

He had both elbows on the bed now, the better to brace himself up above her, but took to tracing arcs on her upper arms with his fingertips, causing her to catch her breath, causing him to push harder, causing the whole chain of events from desire to culmination to move just a little bit faster. Without thought, without restraint, he was soon rutting into her wildly, groaning, growling, taking her earlobe between his teeth and causing her to cry out with the extra pain on top of the pleasure—

It all ended just then in one final thrust; his body went completely taut, all muscles, sinews frozen in time and space as he was completely and utterly overcome with his release; as he did a guttural roar came from deep within his throat and erupted as he reared his head back, as she tightened the grip about his waist, arching even more strongly into him.

His muscles trembled at the effort and at last, as he breathed in and out for the first time consciously since before he'd begun, his shoulders gave way; he dropped to the bed beside her, heaving for air, his brows drawn together, his eyes closed. 

He tried to say her name, felt adrift from the reality of their surroundings, and he wondered disconnectedly why she was not turning, as she always did, to curl up to him, when he remembered her wrists were fastened with the tie. A sharp laugh issued forth.

"Mark?" he heard through his ebbing haze. Her voice almost sounded a little hurt.

"Oh, love," he said, continuing to smile, opening his eyes and attempting to focus on her. "I only just reminded myself why you weren't wrapping your arms around me."

He saw her expression change, saw the corners of her mouth turn up. "Oh."

He realised all at once that wanted very much to hold her in his arms, to have her hold him in return, so he pushed himself up towards where her hands were. The tension she'd put on the tie had caused the knot to become practically impenetrable, but with a little work and the assistance of a metal nail file from her bedside table, he got the knot undone.

He realised the silk tie had left pale pink abrasions; he took her hands delicately in his then kissed her on the pulse points of both wrists before caressing her arms then gathering her into his embrace, pulling her on top of him.

"That was fun," she said with a great, satisfied exhalation of breath, brushing her lips against the short hair of his sideburn. She reached back behind her for the duvet and pulled it over the both of them.

It had been fun, and he was thankful once again that he'd found her, thankful to have a woman, a girlfriend, a lover, who wasn't afraid to try something a little off the beaten path, yet was respectful of what he was comfortable with, willing to guide him gently into those areas, and help him to overcome his apprehensions.

Instead of saying all that, he simply murmured, "Mm-hm," his hands roaming idly between her shoulder blades, to the small of her back, to her bottom. "There's something wonderful to be said about this, though."

"Won't hear an argument from me," she whispered in response.

He took in a deep breath; the fading scent of her perfume mixed with the undeniably heady scent of her made him feel warm and safe, relaxed and well cared for.

He didn't remember dozing off, but he must have done so; when he opened his eyes she was not in bed with him, and he was still crossways on the bed, the duvet curled up around him. Furrowing his brow, he sat up and caught the sound of the water running in the bathroom. He smiled and got to his feet, pulling the duvet back into place then turning the covers down. He rescued his shirt, boxers and trousers from the floor, folded them and laid them on the chair by the door, hoping they might yet be presentable the next morning. He also recovered her powered-down mobile to her nightstand lest it be accidentally laundered.

He realised all of that wine had come back to haunt him, so he wandered to the loo, rapping on the door, which was not closed quite all the way; despite what they'd just done, he wanted to be respectful of her time in the bathroom. "Bridget?"

It opened and she stood there, looking torn, dressed in a short robe. "Mark."

Naturally he became immediately concerned. "What's the matter?"

"I saw the label on your tie."

He was completely and utterly bewildered. "What?"

"It's very expensive and I've gone and ruined it for you."

He laughed. He couldn't help it. To mollify further hurt feelings he took her into his arms. "It's just a tie," he said, "and silk is resilient. I'm sure it will be fine." He kissed the top of her head. "And I will take great pleasure in wearing it in future."

He heard her giggle. The storm had passed.

"Now go on and get into bed. I'll be right back, I promise."

He finished up in the loo, then returned to find her in bed as directed, the folded edge of the sheet reaching just above her chest, her blonde hair sprawled on the pillow around her, a sweet smile on her face.

He switched off the lamp then climbed in beside her, to her left as she preferred, then reached over to stroke her cheek and kiss her goodnight before spooning up to her, burying his nose in her hair.

He loved her. He knew he did. It seemed ridiculous to be so certain about it so soon into this relationship, but he knew how he felt, knew that it was not just the sex, as good and as frequent as it was. He loved looking at her smile; loved her slightly off-centred sense of humour; loved the serious discussions they had on the most trivial of subjects; loved the way she could make him laugh when he least felt like doing so. He loved being with her, plain and simple.

He didn't think he was judging his own feelings unfairly. What else to call it but love?

He was fearful, though, of saying so already; he was pretty sure she had strong feelings for him too, but he did not want to scare her when so many previous boyfriends had hurt her so badly.

In the dark and the quiet of her room he could hear her slow and steady breathing, clearly deeply asleep; he should have been too, but despite his physical exertion the hyperactivity of his thoughts kept him awake. At last he resolved to let the words come out when the time was right, and only then.

He felt her move, stretch, and turn over; as she did, her knee showed impeccable accuracy in managing to target and land in a most sensitive area. He tried to hold in a shout but the strength of her blow made it impossible, and he folded into a foetal position in response.

"Mark?" she asked groggily, rousing from sleep. "Are you all right?"

"Fine," he squeaked, then whispered, "Must ask Sharon if she believes in voodoo dolls."

"What?"

"Turning me into a soprano by proxy." Despite the pain, he actually began to see this as rather funny. "Having you knee me in the groin in your sleep."

"Oh, Christ, Mark," she said, reaching over to embrace him. "I'm so sorry."

He shook his head. "You didn't mean it."

"Still, that must have really hurt."

"Well, yes," he said.

"Poor Mark," she said, pulling him as close as she could with him still bent in half with pain. "You know," she said, "if you like I could kiss it to make it better."

He turned to look at her and saw the playful smirk on her face, knew that she was teasing him; he started to laugh and curled back into the crook of her arm. She threaded her fingers into his hair, and he felt himself falling quickly to slumber as the unease of his earlier thoughts resolved themselves:

She smoked, she drank, she kneed him in her sleep… and he loved her anyway.

_The end._


End file.
